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“Wait!” she shouts, but it’s too late.
I look at the item she has in her hands. Taking it, I see an ultrasound scan of our daughter, with a name engraved in the metal of the frame.
Mira.
“Is thi . . .? What—?” I stutter. “Mirabella.”
My mother’s name.
“Yes.” She nods slowly.
I kneel to the ground, placing my head gently on her pregnant belly.
I don’t know how I got so lucky with all the shitty hands I’ve been dealt in my life.
Everything worked out. I played my cards right.
The End.
